Chapter 1
Even a dog raised by House Breio becomes a dragon.
That wasn’t just an old saying—it was the undeniable truth.
I’m living proof.
Louis de Breio, the genius of the century.
People called me that, the third son of Duke Breio. The world had its eyes on me, and I lived up to their expectations.
At three, I spoke three languages fluently.
At four, I could recite the notoriously complex Breio Aura Technique word to word.
At five, I created a third-class magical formula—a form of invisibility magic.
By the time I was eight, my title had changed.
Theoretical genius.
Duke Breio summoned not just his household retainers but also top talents from all over the realm.
Only the king himself had the authority to gather such a group—besides the Duke.
Everyone looked grim.
They examined me—thoroughly, each in their own way.
But not one of them stepped forward to take responsibility for me.
“Truly, not even a trace of talent? Not spirit magic? Not divine magic?”
The Duke turned to the High Priest Valencia, dispatched from the Holy Church of Haryan.
He was the next Pope candidate.
The High Priest bowed deeply.
“I’m sorry, Your Grace.”
“No need to apologize. It's not your fault.”
The Duke’s sigh weighed heavily on the room.
A long silence passed before he spoke again.
“Then what can the boy do?”
Everyone looked at one another, gauging the mood.
As a human, he could technically do anything. Even menial labor was a possibility.
But not for a noble of House Breio.
One had to choose a path recognized by the family and become the best in it.
Finally, Pakus, the Duke’s chief mage, cautiously opened his mouth.
“…He could become a theoretical mage.”
“Weren’t you the one who argued that magic theory without the ability to sense mana is just fantasy?”
“Y-yes, that’s true. But perhaps the young master may someday overcome that limitation.”
A vague, unconvincing answer.
And no one knew better than Pakus how much the Duke despised such ambiguity.
He lowered his head, unable to meet the Duke’s eyes.
‘If a theoretical mage could ever exist in this world, it would be the third son of House Breio.’
But Pakus kept that to himself.
Even a hint of uncertainty might provoke the Duke’s ire.
Breio the Swordmaster.
Patriarch of House Breio. Widely hailed as the continent’s greatest swordsman.
To knights across the land, he was a living god.
“Coincidentally, our Order has a vacancy for a doctrine instructor—”
“A perfect job for a baron’s child. Try Hebron, the grass-eaters. They’d probably weep with joy and accept.”
The High Priest’s expression soured.
Teaching doctrine was mostly memorization—something that matched the third son’s strengths exactly.
He memorized everything he read. Not only that, he spotted flaws in theory and even created new ones.
His ability far exceeded that of any doctrine instructor. But one who couldn’t wield divine power had no place succeeding a High Priest.
“The young master shows great talent in medicine.”
This came from a man in his early forties.
The Duke glared at him, his eyes as sharp as blades but the man held his gaze.
He was the family butler, responsible for the education of Duke Breio’s children.
“Medicine? Are you suggesting my son live as a healer of peasants?”
“Every year, hundreds—thousands—of commoners die from disease and plague. We cannot save them all with divine magic. If the young master were to seriously pursue medicine, he could save countless lives. The name of House Breio would rise to the heavens.”
“Fame? The people? And that’s worth more than the duke’s prestige?”
The butler opened his mouth to reply.
He truly believed medicine was the most fitting path for the third son.
But he hesitated.
Because the next words he spoke might cost him his life.
Was it truly worth saying?
The butler paused, wondering if that was a worthy answer.
The butler closed his eyes slowly.
He opened his eyes as he remembered the duke's three sons.
His expression was grim, set like stone, fully prepared to risk his life. His resolve clashed with the Duke’s cold, murderous gaze.
Then, it happened.
The child, who had shrunk under the weight of the adults’ discussion, finally spoke.
“…I’ll find it.”
The voice was small but firm.
He was a frail boy, barely six or seven at most, but he raised his head and looked each adult in the eye.
“I’ll find my own way. I’ll prove that I’m someone who won’t shame this family.”
The Duke raised his right hand.
On his index finger was the signet of the head of House Breio.
A symbol that he was about to issue an irrevocable, absolute command.
“Feed this child the Dragon’s Breath.”
Gasps filled the room.
Dragon’s Breath—a mythical elixir said to amplify mana and aura beyond their natural limits. Priceless, even with all the wealth in the world.
But to someone without even a trace of power, it was poison.
Even a healthy grown man would struggle to survive more than three years after taking it.
It was a decree to either grow—or die.
Should the boy show any signs of potential, he would evolve rapidly under its effects.
The Duke stared down at the boy with a cold, indifferent gaze.
“Ordinary humans will not be a part of the Breio Family.”
***
They all said I’d be dead in three years.
But I survived ten.
At times, I even dared to believe I might live longer.
But every day was agony, locked away in a dark cellar, denied even a chance to prove myself.
For five years, I didn’t take a single step outside my room. That was my father's will—and mine as well.
Louis.
The name once followed by ‘de Breio’ had been stripped from me.
Rumors had spread that I had fallen ill ten years ago, wasting away from some incurable disease.
It was a lie crafted by House Breio—meant to ease the world into the possibility of my death after taking Dragon’s Breath.
But simply surviving wasn’t enough to prove anything.
In House Breio, those who merely breathed were objects of scorn.
If you were alive, you were expected to prove your worth.
And so, I studied.
I consumed every medical text I could find. I memorized the properties of every plant known to grow on the continent.
I combined them. Created new medicines.
Thanks to that, my life, once estimated at three years, stretched to ten.
‘If I can just push through this next hurdle… I might live five more years. Maybe even longer.’
My body was on the brink—poisoned by the Dragon’s Breath, sustained only by countless concoctions. If I was to escape this predetermined death, I had to break the rules.
I needed a theory no human had ever dared to pursue.
‘I’ve done everything I can.’
I memorized every theory on magic and swordsmanship I could get my hands on.
I spent four years trying to invent new magic… I hoped desperately that there might be a spell even someone like me could cast.
Then another three years on aura cultivation methods—none of which allowed me to store even a drop of energy.
I dove into medicine and herbalism. Studied spirit magic and divine magic too.
I exploited every resource the Ducal house had.
Even borrowed books from the Royal Archives. Eventually, I got my hands on ancient tomes, undeciphered relics of the past.
I scoured history for any instance of someone gaining powers through unorthodox means—not magic, but something else.
But in all of human history, such cases were virtually nonexistent.
The few I did find demanded sacrifices, like wagering one's soul. Not a single feasible theory remained.
Five years after I swallowed the Dragon’s Breath, the Duke issued another order:
[Seal the door. No one is allowed to enter or leave.]
Even my siblings stopped visiting.
My mother turned her back on me.
Only my little sister came to see me now and then, but eventually, even she was kept away.
‘Of course. She must be of different blood.’
Trapped underground with only documents to keep me company, I stumbled upon the secrets of House Breio.
‘I was a manufactured genius. House Breio bought gifted slaves—kidnapped them if needed—to engineer brilliance. They even tried forming a specialized organization for it. But I only found signs, no hard proof.’
There were limits to what I could uncover while confined to a dungeon. All I had were old forbidden texts I’d read as a child, ledgers, and the scraps of information still accessible to me.
Maybe I was just being paranoid, driven mad by solitude.
But could a true father cast out his blood this easily?
‘It’s not entirely unthinkable. My two brothers and little sister—compared to the legends, their talents are average. A bit above average, maybe, but not worthy of House Breio’s future.’
Public opinion was generous. Internally, House Breio was brutal and cold.
They needed a second coming of the Swordmaster Duke—someone whose brilliance would secure their legacy.
None of the three siblings made the cut.
‘Maybe… maybe Father placed his hopes on me.’
Feeding me Dragon’s Breath, something that couldn’t be bought with gold, to someone without a single shred of talent? It defied reason.
I was the only one who’d awakened a different kind of gift. But it was the sort of power that meant nothing in Breio’s world.
‘Even so, I must survive. If I can prove the value of my abilities, I can become part of Breio again. No—I’ll rise and become the Duke of Breio myself.’
Even the servant assigned to me no longer spoke.
Dante, the butler who once visited, hadn’t appeared in over three years.
I had become the ghost of House Breio’s underground estate.
‘They once called me a prodigy when I was young. But now I’ve become the flaw in the Breio family theory that could turn even a dog into a dragon. No, more likely, my name has already been erased from this world—struck from every record as if I had never existed.’
That’s how House Breio operates. Even the heir isn’t spared.
For the glory of genius!
That was the family motto, etched into a plaque in the center of the dining hall. As a child, every time I went in to eat, those words would make my stomach twist into knots.
It’s over.
I tried everything. Failed every time.
No form of known magic, aura training, or medicine could fix me.
I even turned to spirit magic and the rituals of other races, but they yielded nothing.
There’s only one thing left…
In stolen moments, I taught myself the ancient language.
One had to know it to understand the deeper theories of magic.
Modern mages would scoff at the idea, but most high-level spells in use today are just pale imitations of ancient magic.
Contemporary mages are idiots, a lot of them—haven’t been able to create anything beyond 7th-class magic. Their greatest achievements come from studying the remnants of the past and recreating them, nothing more.
But I memorized the ancient texts, chanted them until they burned into my mind. If I were granted power, I could create not only 7th-class spells but 9th-class spells.
But reality was cruel. I couldn’t cast even the simplest spell. Not even the most basic of 1st-class spells.
‘All I have left now are ancient fairy tales.’
